The Writer Who Wrote Himself Out
Creation is a slow act of disappearance.
Each story he wrote made him lighter. His final line vanished him completely: “I am the sentence that ends itself.”
About the Creator
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The Cave Part 11
Darkness, and the countless points of light, as if the entire void beyond was filled with the fire of a million stars. I felt as if I was staring into the eternity of a night sky beyond those wooden doors, the place beyond the actual reality, while I stood behind a curtain of scenery, the mountain and sky a mere pretense. And in that void beyond of unfathomable space, there hung suspended a mighty shard of crystal floating in place, with hundreds of a far smaller chunks orbiting around it in balanced but intersecting circles, no two in the same path. These caught the light from the center, and sparkled with inner fire each.
By Jamye Sharpabout 14 hours ago in Chapters
Fall From Grace
Slipping my hand to separate olive brown curtains but a fraction, enough only for a sliver of sunlight to penetrate a corner of my self imposed prison. My eyes rest upon needlepoint as a pang of loss stabs, as if I was plucked from my old life and discarded into my present life. My amber eyes trace my stitchwork, 'Amelia' stitched lovingly in calligraphy with gold embroidery thread. A pattern, once so proud of designing, now lay forgotten on my favorite sitting chair. My name floated above a beautifully shaped feminine hand done in a satin stitch, with viny morning glories wrapping around each digit. Vines transitioning nonchalantly into dangling gold chains dripping with small teardrop emeralds, as though the stem weeps through the Victorian French filigree, magically transforming into precious stones. Sighing, with a heavy heart, as my eyes sweep my beloved hand carved walnut Victorian antique chair, upholstered in gold and gingerly sprinkled with ivory flowers, yet awaiting my return as though shaming me for being away so long. Grandmother's Edwardian cut crystal lamp's beauty hides under a dusty layer, the lone survivor of a set, she purchased as a newlywed, rest upon a vintage walnut end table on top a champagne crocheted doily.
By Kami R. Taylonsabout 3 hours ago in Chapters
Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Booyah!
Dear Professor Donkeldong, I would like to formally apologize. Last night I snuck into your office. I sat in your chair and poured myself three fingers of Scotch from the bottle you’ve got stashed in the top desk drawer. Then I helped myself to your private library.
By Leslie Writes6 days ago in Humor
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